


Heartstrung

by LitheLies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healing, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Musician Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21666970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitheLies/pseuds/LitheLies
Summary: Hermione made a sincere mistake when she signed onto a lease above a ratty dive bar, but it was only for a year. The mistakes only piled on further, as she went down to see why it had to be so loud every Saturday night.[ Dramione / Ministry Worker!Hermione and Musician!Draco ]
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 29
Kudos: 105





	1. of all the bars.

_**Saturday - November 13th, 2004.** _

The floor was shaking again.

Hermione folded her book together, her thumbs pressed between the pages. She glared at the exposed hardwood, as it that would stop the music that shook the belly of her building.

She had been in such a frantic state when she'd left Ron, she had taken on the first apartment she'd been accepted for. They hadn't even asked for her to do an inspection and accepted her within hours of her application. It was a man named Stuart Niccals, who owned the bar below. She'd not met him, but if she did, she'd like to thank him.

The apartment itself? Beautiful.

There was two bedrooms and a bathtub, with a bay window that she'd crammed full of pillows. There were built-in bookshelves and a spacious kitchen. The view was of a bustling Muggle street, and Diagon Alley was a short walk away.

Even Crookshanks had been pleased. He strutted around and marked his scent with his cheeks, and rolled all over the bedroom carpet. He had a small balcony that she'd put chicken wire over so he could glare at the busy strip of shops below.

But right now Crookshanks was tucked into the crook of her elbow, shaken to his little paws.

And then the music crept up, louder. The patrons had no idea how loud it was, she could make out the drums and bass line.

She cradled her little kitten, who was really a huge cat... But he was her kitten, no matter how fat or crotchety he got.

"I know, I'm sorry," she soothed her hand over his back.

Saturday nights were when it became insufferable. The rest of the week was quaint and quiet. She'd moved in the Monday, and lived in blissful ignorance... Until her decorative glass Sneakascope bounced straight off it's display and shattered.

She fixed it, but now it whistled every Saturday night as if it knew it was close to a second death.

It had been three months, and the music had escalated each week. As if they were out to tease her out of her home, like a goat laid before the den of a dragon.

"They close at one," she scratched behind Crookshanks' ear. "Only... Two more hours."

And the music got louder.

She could hear the shape of vocals, the lifts and lows. Did they know they were so insufferable?

The floor throbbed against her feet, and then she felt a solid thud. Like someone had smacked the soles of her feet.

"That's it," she jumped up.

Crookshanks launched himself from her arms, to cling to the cat tree that he was much too big for. It groaned under his weight as he kneaded the rough carpet of it.

"It's too much, isn't it?" She said, to Crookshanks. He was an excellent listener. She threw on her navy trenchcoat and pulled on some ballet flats. She had her hair up, though otherwise, she was in her pajamas. It was eleven in the evening, and sure, she was being the rude, old neighbor. She was twenty-three, and she was _tired_.

And she didn't want to resort to magic, as the Ministry got funny about altering Muggle rentals with magic for minor things. She didn't want to go to Wizegamot because she had a ten o'clock bedtime that'd been ruined by some rowdy ne'er-do-wells. And now she felt even older, as she snatched up her keys and rushed downstairs.

Her apartment door had a small alcove, where she kept her umbrellas and shoes, but then straight out the door was the bar's backyard. Her stairs led to the back alley of the bar, which was normally quite empty and clean. Instead, there were people on the stairwell, cuddled and tonguing one another's throats. She groaned, and stepped around the bodies.

Her flannel pajama bottoms gave her little protection against the cool winter evening, as she navigated her way into the bar itself.

And she wanted to be ill.

It smelled of sweat and the music was far too loud. She didn't know what her plan was, except that she did, completely. She was going to go find whoever the manager was, and ask if it was strictly necessary to play music so _loud_. She navigated between the crowds of sweaty youths as if she were lost at sea. It was so wet and salty, she'd not be surprised. One girl tried to grab her hands, to dance, as she smiled and waved her off.

And she glared at the band, which featured a drummer, two guitarists, and a vocalist. She frowned at them, as if they'd stop by sheer intimidation alone, but they were unaffected.

The man who had the microphone was too invested to notice her, but she noticed him.

How could she not?

She stumbled against a man, who was crouched in the crowd. He seemed to have fallen, or tripped, and he was hunched in a ball. She hadn't fallen, but the stumble had stopped her stalking. She reached out to him, out of pity, and helped him back to his feet. He was too drunk, too gone to even know what had happened.

"Got a cig?" He asked, mouthy and loud by her ear.

"No," she shook her head, her nose wrinkled. She was too distracted by the singer, with narrow features and white-blonde hair. He was in the midst of a song she couldn't recognize or understand, but she'd never been one for modern music. She didn't mind musicals, and she loved a little fun pop, but she tended to stick to instrumental music as it allowed her to focus.

Words were her weak spot, she had to listen to every single one, to test its merits and mettle.

"Want a drink?" He asked, not sober enough to take the hint.

"No, thank you," she withdrew her hand, which he'd taken to holding.

"Are you with someone?"

"No," Hermione pressed through the crowd, though her gaze refused to shift from the singer. Because, of course.

It had been six years, and she'd seen him in the _Daily Prophet_ , but she'd see him less and less these days. She palmed her way through the crowd, as she shifted people, all the way to the bar. She swallowed hard, no less resolute in her plan. She waited her turn, though her patience was tested as two men cut ahead of her. She bit down a complaint, aware that she wasn't here to buy drinks, she wasn't a patron.

Once she got her hands to the bar, she regretted her instinct to grab it. Her hands were wet, and the mush of a paper coaster that'd inflamed from alcohol stuck to her fingers.

"Where's the manager?"

The bartender frowned at her, as if to ask why.

"I have a complaint."

The bartender pointed at the man on the stage, the same white-blonde man who she'd known had been a mirage.

And yet he was there, crisp in the fog and the cheap neon lights. He'd changed songs, she thought, and the band behind him picked up. The music swelled and swallowed her, as she glared him down.

_Malfoy owned a Muggle bar?_

Further to that, Malfoy was in a Muggle band?

Her eyes couldn't seem to focus, as she stared down the set. She thought if she stared long enough he'd vanish back into the pages of the _Daily Prophet_ , as if he'd wink out of existence, as he had years ago. She'd put the war to rest long ago, she'd attended the funerals and helped fundraise to undo the damages.

But the flash of ice-blue as his eyes met hers, that was enough to confirm that she'd been fooled.

There was no Stuart Niccals.

There was only Draco Malfoy, wrapped in the name of another man.

Hermione ordered herself a glass of water with a slice of lemon, and she sat. She endured the deafening blares of the sound system, and she sipped at her water with the most contemptuous lips. He had to have seen her, she wagered. He didn't make it known, if he had. He didn't look her way too much or too little.

(This upset her more than it should have.)

By the end of his 'set', if that's what they called it, he soaked up the applause and smiled. He looked so unlike the frail boy she'd known during the end days of the war. But then again, she thought of his self-centered ego and his need for attention, and it made sense. Of course, he'd manipulate Muggles and make them think he was good at music.

"Thank you, as always! We're selling CDs, you better bloody buy one or I'll hunt you down," he laughed, and the crowd laughed, and Hermione laughed, in a mocking way.

He had a simple black outfit on, t-shirt and jeans, with chains at his hips and too many rings. She could see the Dark Mark on his inner forearm, but it was swamped with other black tattoos, so much so that the shape was lost. But she knew it was there.

And then he got off the stage, and vanished.

And she threw her glass onto the table and didn't even flinch when it rolled and shattered.

She rushed over to the side of the stage, to see a flock of girls who looked too young to be in a bar. She frowned as they circled around him, a vulture to meat, and scoffed loudly when he signed a girl's belly. He'd had to crouch, and stuck his tongue out as if it were so difficult. He looked up to her, said something under his breath, under the din of the filler music, and shot up to peck her on the cheek. She laughed, and Hermione wondered if the place was filled with general anesthesia given how people were so giggly.

But his task was complete, she recognized. The music was lower, and she'd be able to sleep.

It was one.

She'd been here for two hours? How was that possible?

As Malfoy worked through the crowd, she felt the struggle of lionheart bravery and schoolgirl dread. He had been cruel to her in school, save for a few moments of kindness. But as a rule, he was a prat, and he continued to be a prat. She felt this solidify in her vision, as she watched him schmooze through the crowd like he was a big deal.

No wonder he had a bar, dedicated to his own trashy music. Of course, he'd sink hundreds of thousands of dollars into property, for a little fancy fun.

When he saw her, he didn't look surprised. Rather, he looked bored, as if she were a guest who'd turned up late. "Took you long enough," Malfoy drawled, as the crowd thinned and he looked her over.

Hermione lost every drop of venom, as ice-blue met brown, and she swelled beneath the shadows of the bar.

"I'd thought you'd storm down here the first night to complain, but," he shook his wrist, to check a wristband as if it were a watch. "It took you three months. I'd thought you'd rush down here with your knickers all twisted up by at least the fourth night."

"You've been doing this on purpose?" She gestured, wide, as if she wanted to drown him in the sea of people.

Draco smirked down at her, his hands tucked into his pockets. She decided she didn't like the torn black jeans and the too-tight black t-shirt, like he was a Muggle, like he wasn't a pompous Pure-blood with too much time and money on his hands.

"Well, fantastic for you, you got what you wanted, you can stop deafening me now," she tossed her head, to knock some loose strands from her face.

"Oh, you don't like independent musicians?" Draco pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offense etched into every inch of his face. " _Hermione_."

"Don't -- Do not use my name!"

Draco pouted down at her, before his eyebrow inched up. "If you say so, love."

Hermione rotated her jaw and decided to take her leave. She had questions, too many of them, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction. She went to push past him, to get back to her apartment. He stepped into her path, his too-slick smirk still painted onto his lips.

"I have to ask," he gestured to her, to her flannel pajama bottoms and her unruly updo. "I'd expected you to at least _try_. I'd not pick you for someone to slouch down to a bar, in her pajamas."

"I came down to complain to the manager," Hermione pushed past him, as he followed her with ease. He had longer legs, while she had little toddling legs. She hated it.

"So complain," he gestured, wide, as he high-fived a girl who walked past. "I'm all ears."

Hermione pivoted, too easily baited. "You're blaring your awful music until one in the morning, and I want to sleep."

Draco smiled down at her, his hands back in his pockets. "So awful that you sat here for _two hours_ to say as much?"

Hermione lifted her chin, but no words came out.

"I know, I'm good, you don't have to tell me." He scratched his neck, and she couldn't help but watch the tattoos up close. They were a mixture of black ink tattoos, of bones, flowers, skulls, insects... It was such a strange smattering, she couldn't pick one detail out of them all.

"Why... _Here_?" She stepped closer, to whisper to him. "Why not somewhere more... Like you?"

Draco's lazy smirk faded, as he blinked through the question. "What's more like me?"

Hermione stared up at him, as the patrons of the bar began to shuffle out. The lights had been switched on, and the strange black shapes of furniture looked so much more mundane in the light. Empty glasses and cups were strewn around, and the couches had all been angled and offset in strange ways.

Worst of all, the neon light ambiance died, and Malfoy looked so much more like Draco, sickly and slim, with dark circles and translucent skin.

She couldn't see the man who'd been singing on stage, lost in the music.

She just saw Draco.

* * *

_**Sunday - November 14th, 2004.** _

Hermione relaxed in her bathtub, with a too-expensive bath bomb that Ginny had gotten her for her breakup last month. She'd made a whole care package, of chocolates and treats.

Six years was a lot of time to spend on someone, though perhaps that was where the issue stemmed from. It wasn't that she'd lost a relationship, but more than she'd lost six years. It was more like a fade away than a break up. She couldn't stay in a flat with him. He'd offered to let her use their spare bedroom as their bedroom, and they could take time, to rekindle things. There wasn't a lack of a spark, though.

They were on fire; that was the problem.

She toyed with the bubbles, and the pink frothy dye. It was one of Fred and -- was it simply George now? She didn't linger, her mind tugged by a half-there crush she'd once had on Fred. She admired the bubbles that turned to hearts, as they floated into the air. Each time a bubble burst, it played a different note of a song. This song was something melodic and sad, though she could half-hear it.

The bar last night had killed her hearing, as she'd endured two hours of Draco Malfoy's singing.

She hadn't recognized his band, or the music, and it was a strange thing to encounter. She had never seen Draco in anything close to a Muggle setting, or clothes unless you counted the camping grounds or how he'd wear suits. She tongued apart her lips as she flipped the page of her book, on healthy habits for young adults.

She'd left the bar when the lights had flicked on. Malfoy had been called over by a bartender, about a shortage of red wine, and he'd jogged off. He'd not said goodbye, and she'd not thought to stay. She didn't know if she was meant to, but she had no interest. She had been baited down, for reasons she was happy to keep mysterious. 

Her rapid acceptance to the apartment made more and less sense now, as Malfoy had recognized her name... But he hated her.

So why accept her?

She sunk further into the bathtub, her arms lofted either side as she glared up at the ceiling.

After the bubbles stopped their song and the water went lukewarm, she saw herself out of the bath and into her modest bedroom. She could have afforded something bigger, but she wanted to save money rather than splurge. She only had herself to rely on, though she doubted Harry would let her struggle and Ron... Well, he had the joke shop with George, but she refused to lean on him for funds.

She didn't need money. She needed -- she didn't know what she needed, actually.

Time. Space.

Food?

She didn't know. This was the problem.

Food was the easiest to get, so she dressed for the afternoon outside. It was damp and cool, with light rain. Her hair made her painfully aware of how humid it'd become, as it fluffed out like a frizzy barometer. She patted it down, an umbrella held aloft. She shook it out, to protect herself, and sped down to one of the dozens of cafes below.

And for once, she ate outside, alone, unfazed by how alone she really was.

She'd had Ron all these years. She'd not thought to make friends, as she had difficulty with keeping them. She wasn't unsociable, but it was difficult to focus on your career and on friends. She had Ginny and Harry, but the conversation would inevitably steer towards what Ron was up to, and how Lavender had moved in, and how it wasn't like that, she just needed a place to stay.

And Hermione knew it was exactly like that, and she didn't really care.

She really didn't.

Not even as she watched a man in a black suit sit down in front of her, black coffee in hand. He had one ring now, the Malfoy signet ring, and it clinked against the ceramic with anticipation.

"Now, where were we?"


	2. where were we.

_**Sunday - November 14th, 2004.** _

Hermione blinked, as if she could remove Draco so easily. But no matter how hard she blinked, he remained, so unlike the man from last night. Instead, he resembled the boy on the Hogwarts Express, who'd not yet changed into his robes.

Except there was less puppy fat to his face, which sharpened his features and made his cheekbones look incredible. She picked at her salad, unsure if she could get it to go...

"How are you finding the apartment?" He said this in such a genuine way, Hermione felt as if he'd slapped her.

"Fine," she said, her fingers dug into her coffee cup. "It's nice, for now."

"For now?" Draco looked into his coffee, as if there was anything to see except the black abyss.

"Yes, well, you see," Hermione froze, because she didn't want him to see.

"Waiting on Weasley, I imagine." He gave her a wry smile, as if he was so clever.

"We broke up." She clipped each word, as she struck her barrier up. "Rather, I broke up with him."

"Well of course," Draco said, as if that were obvious.

Hermione didn't know what to say to that. She hadn't expected to speak to Malfoy again, let alone discuss her fresh break-up. If you counted a three-month-old break-up as fresh.

"You're not the sort of girl one would break up with."

There was a compliment buried in there, if she squinted. "Why'd you give me the apartment?"

"Give you?" He swirled his coffee and she resisted the urge to slap it out of his hand. "You applied, I accepted. It's hardly giving it to you."

"Yes, but... Our history," she waved a hand, as if that explained it.

"Not sure I follow."

"You hated me at school," Hermione kept her voice plain, as if he'd not been a bully, as if she didn't care.

(He was, and she did.)

"I never hated you."

"Oh," Hermione scoffed from low in her throat. "Oh, is that how you treat people you like then?"

Draco arched a brow, as he sipped his coffee. He looked perplexed and she felt murderous.

"The apartment is lovely and I appreciate the gesture. I won't be staying past the end of the lease, however, you understand."

Draco's lips twitched, as he leaned back in his chair. Several Muggle girls nearby giggled behind their hands, and she resisted the urge to throw up.

"I don't think I can live above such a loud venue."

"It's not always that loud," he smiled, lazily, as he examined the girls. None seemed to keep his attention, as he rolled his gaze back to her.

"Right, so I'm to believe you played music loudly, just to bait me -- "

"Still clever, I see."

Hermione squinted at him, unsure what his intent was. She'd eaten most of her salad, in anger and spite, though she kept her croutons for last.

And then Draco speared them, all four in sequence, and ate them with a grin.

"You child!"

"Come now, Granger, I'm your landlord -- "

"You're a pain in the arse," she snatched up her peppermint tea, which she chugged, and then set off for her apartment.

Which was difficult, given he knew exactly where she lived.

A chill ran down her spine as he walked alongside her.

"Can I help you?"

"I don't know, can you?" Malfoy mimicked back, as childish as before. He seemed to revel in his past, as a prat and a pain.

"What do you want?" And they rounded the corner, where Hermione saw Ginny outside her building.

Which doubled as Draco's, she supposed.

Draco smiled down at her, handsome and horrible, and she blamed the six months since she'd been touched by anyone.

The sex died before the break up, and she felt warm along the back of her neck as he bent closer.

"You should come to my next performance, but dress for it."

And she wouldn't, she refused.

He winked at Ginny, who flashed her wedding ring at him. He laughed, loudly, and vanished into the bar below her apartment.

"What's he doing here?" Ginny spat.

And Hermione had to break the news to Ginny, though she'd not yet accepted it herself.

* * *

"Mum hates Lavender," Ginny laughed, as she picked through some leftover Thai food Hermione had in her fridge. She had Quidditch marks across her throat and face, from a Bludger the night before.

"Mh," Hermione said, from her spot on the floor. She was a star fish, tragic and sprawled.

"Thought you'd find it funny."

"Yes, hilarious, my ex and his girlfriend, ha, ha -- "

"Don't be miserable," Ginny nudged Hermione with her toe. Crookshanks had strewn himself around Ginny's shoulders like a fat capelet, as if he could sneak spicy chicken between bites. 

"I don't know, Ginny. I feel like I made a mistake."

"Woah, slow down," Ginny waved her fork at Hermione. "You complained nonstop about Ron."

"Yes, well, he's like a pair of old shoes."

Ginny massaged her forehead. "Worn out and useless?"

"No, more... it was comfortable and I knew what was happening. Now I'm just... I don't know what I am."

"Hermione," the redhead sat forward, to look down at her. "Have you ever defined yourself by your boyfriend?"

"No, but... It's what people expect. You and Harry, Ron and I." She pushed up, her shoulders pinched by her ears. "Everyone was so happy for us."

"Were you happy?"

The silence spoke for itself.

"Maybe you need to do things for yourself again, rather than for someone else." Ginny sucked on the fork, as she stared at the wall opposite.

"What do you mean?"

"Do something just for the sake of doing it, I suppose." Ginny paused. "Didn't you say Draco plays music downstairs?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, as she watched the train wreck that was Ginny's line of reasoning.

"Why not just fuck Malfoy? It'd piss Ron off, pay back for him cheating on you with Lavender."

"Yes, sure, why not -- " Hermione raked her fingers down her face, lightly.

"He looks less oily than he did at school. Plus, he's from a totally different group, no overlap. Remember how when Neville broke up with Luna, and then Luna dated Seamus, and Seamus was with Dean but then Dean went out with Neville and -- "

"A mess."

"Exactly!" Ginny pointed at Hermione.

"Nevermind the fact he was awful to me at school."

"Well he liked you, didn't he?" Ginny picked through the rice to find a capsicum.

"Pardon?"

Ginny made a face, confused and then alarmed. "Wait, you didn't know?"

"What do you mean?" Hermione waited for the other shoe to drop. She adjusted her posture, to look at Ginny.

"I used to practice Quidditch your Eighth year, with Blaise and Theo," she swallowed loudly. "They told me, that Draco was pissed you were dating Ron. I think 'cause... I don't remember how, but Draco turned up, and he got more pissy about it, said to drop it."

Hermione looked unconvinced.

"It was years ago, but I swear I told you."

"You didn't," Hermione pushed up from the floor. "And he never liked me. That's ridiculous."

"Well, it's better than Goyle looking to frisk your fanny."

"Please don't say it like that."

Ginny smiled, in a way that suggested she'd won. She finished her food and skipped over to the sink, to clean up. They cued up some romantic comedies on the TV, as Ginny adored Muggle movies.

She found them hilarious and enthralling in a way that Hermione couldn't relate to, but she'd grown up with television. It was a foreign concept to the witch beside her, cuddled up in a Gryffindor throw blanket she'd gotten from Diagon Alley.

But Hermione spent the films wrapped up in thoughts of Draco. He'd not even tried to speak to her Eighth year, and avoided her altogether afterwards.

She expected him to be married with at least a son by now. There had to be every Pure-blood witch on his tail, and twice as many Halfbloods. Hermione adjusted her cheek, to rest it on Ginny's head.

The younger girl had curled up to her, with Crookshanks between them.

She trusted Ginny, certainly, but it seemed far-fetched to imagine that Draco saw her as anything aside from the bushy-haired know-it-all who bested him in every subject and helped put his father in Azkaban.

_**Monday - 15th November, 2004.** _

Perhaps Malfoy was like a single drop of green dye, let loose on a load of white clothes. Because after Saturday, after six years of his absence, she couldn't seem to escape him.

At least that's how it seemed as she walked into her department of the Ministry, where she oversaw the relocation of House Elves from abusive households.

It was messy, thankless work. Most Elves believed they were in the best house possible, and refused to leave. It was difficult to monitor the Elves, and even more difficult to prosecute those who defied the laws.

But they were getting there, slowly, and she was happy for that.

But not for the blonde man who was seated on her desk.

"Morning Hermione!" A young witch with dark brown skin and even darker hair. She was new, and Hermione clawed from a name in her shock.

"Penny," Hermione greeted, her mouth dry. "Why is there... Why's he here?" 

"Oh, old case," Penny snuffed through her nose. She walked over to a stack of folders, to tug out a rather thick one labelled with the name 'Malfoy'.

"Yes, but, traditionally people make an appointment and are approved, then they're assigned to a specific official who will lead them through the appeal process -- "

"I'm here to pay it," Malfoy rested back on the desk, in a way Hermione deeply hated.

"That's not how it's done."

"Oh?" Draco stood up, thankfully, and smiled at her. He looked at the shabby corner of the office, where Hermione sat. She had a bare wall, where before photos of herself and Ron had been.

Now all she had was a photo of Crookshanks dressed like an elf. He looked miserable. She walked over to sit at her desk, as if he'd leave.

As if it could be so simple.

"You've been hounding my family for years to get them to settle these fines," he pulled out a coin purse, which had to be enchanted given how far his hand reached into it. "So allow me -- "

"What's your angle?"

Malfoy looked as confused as she felt.

"You've been avoiding it for years and what, suddenly you've had a change of heart?"

"In a sense," Malfoy withdrew a smaller sack of coins from the larger one, and Hermione was reminded of those nesting dolls. "It's eleven hundred Galleons, is it not?"

"Do you even know what your paying for?" Hermione's voice wavered. "It's not the money. It's the fact that Elves were tortured in your home, tens of them. They were burned and beaten, taught fear and hatred. The money isn't the point."

Malfoy dropped the coin purse onto her desk, though it landed with less weight than one would expect. But she trusted him, to know he'd paid in full. He was a snake, but money he had in droves.

"Did I make myself clear?"

"If you don't mind me saying," Malfoy smiled in a way that ruined smiles for her, angled and vague. "You're an idiot if you think it was only Elves who were affected by my father."

And he left, and for once, she wished he hadn't.


	3. sad news.

_**Monday - 15th November, 2004.** _

Hermione was, if nothing else, a researcher. It had been a problem in her childhood, when she disputed the logic behind Santa Claus. It had cropped up again when a teacher told her she had made a mistake in an essay during her final year of elementary school, only for Hermione to turn up with an essay on why she was right.

She was insufferable, she understood that.

And yet she wasn't the gawky eleven-year-old, afraid of people not liking her. She had since learned that those who mattered would like her, even at her most insufferable. So long as she wasn't out to hurt others, then she was within her boundaries.

And that was how she explained to herself that it was fine that she'd reopened the Malfoy case.

Which allowed her access to peripheral files about the Malfoy family.

It was necessary, you see.

Harry's voice cut through her piles of parchment, thick with the Malfoy's recent trade negociations over a property in Venice. The problem was, Hermione hadn't heard what he'd said, just that it was Harry.

She frowned at her notes, her hand raised and her finger extended, as if she could conduct Harry into silence.

"Lunch? Hello?"

"Yes, yes, thank you."

"No," Harry laughed. "Come with me, to lunch, please."

Hermione clapped her gaze onto Harry with such ferocity he stepped back.

"I said please."

"I'm busy," she gestured wide to the papers, as if they made the case for her.

"Oh, I can help with that," Penny said, unhelpful as ever.

"No, this is -- "

"I promise, I'll make sure the fines match up," Penny waved her hands, a dark blush across her face. She couldn't look at Harry directly, and Hermione wanted to point out there was no sense in being flustered over Harry. But she was sure neither of them would appreciate her cutting in, to point out the obvious.

Instead, Hermione gathered her navy trenchcoat and her small hat, fashioned like a cloish hat from the twenties. It was miserable outside, and Harry always insisted they go out to Muggle London for lunch.

Any excuse to avoid the Ministry lunch spots, which often ended with him being roped into conversations he'd had a million times over.

"Don't pack any of this away," Hermione jabbed her finger at Penny, her eyes narrowed at the girl.

"Of course Ms. Granger," Penny sung, happy and light.

Harry and Hermione headed towards the elevator, though she tossed a few worried glances over her shoulder.

"Is something the matter?" Harry asked, cautious and soft.

"No."

"Are you sure?" Harry tipped his head, to look at her as he called the elevator. She was sure the elevator had a soft spot for Harry, as it always came within two seconds of him summoning it. Or perhaps the Aurors had priority, given the nature of their job.

"This isn't a bait lunch is it," Hermione said, not answering his question. "You haven't invited Ron and I, hoping to patch things up."

"No," Harry tapped the atrium button, which sent the elevator veering at the strangest angle.

"And you aren't inviting me out to discuss Malfoy being my landlord, are you."

Harry's mouth opened, and shut, and Hermione had her answer.

"You better watch that wife of yours."

Harry smiled, his brilliant green eyes obscured by the flutter of false innocence.

"It's really not an issue. And it's only until the lease ends, which is... Midway through next year, I believe."

"You could just stay with Ginny and I," he offered, his hands deep in the pockets of his robes.

"It's actually quite nice," Hermione spun a faded gold ring around her finger, one her parents had bought for her as a graduation present. It bore her graduation year and several rubies, though it needed to be cleaned. "Bookshelves and a bay window. Plenty of room."

"Yeah but it's Malfoy's," Harry wrinkled his nose, his eyes snapped to the now-open door.

The flurry of lunch-goers were spread across the atrium, from visiting dignitaries to secretaries, all manner of witches and wizards. One woman sped past on something that resembled a unicorn with wings, and Hermione felt a deep yearn to know what that was about.

Instead, she was with Harry, off to secure a panini with cheese.

...

"Wait, he sings?" Harry snorted into his coffee, which was thick with cream and sugar. He snatched a napkin from the table next to him, as the cafe was quite empty. Under the guise of the gesture, he charmed the coffee away.

Hermione grit her teeth, as well as the urge to correct his spelluse. They were in a small Muggle cafe, a few blocks away from the Ministry. Magic wasn't really permitted here, in any sense.

"I don't believe you," Harry smirked around a bite of his sandwich, a thick club one with too much lettuce.

"Well, it's true," Hermione trimmed another piece of her panini with her scratched silverware, her eyebrows flexed to her hairline. "And he's not spoken to me, either, except that he was baiting me to go down to his awful bar with loud music."

"Evil," Harry grinned.

"It is! I sleep at ten o'clock each night, and I wake up at six. A perfect eight hours, give or take."

Harry continued to smile, in a way that only someone who'd known her since childhood could. People didn't really understand her, and she didn't expect them to. She doubted Harry fully understood, but he knew better than to mock her for her specificities.

"It's good to have a routine," she added, her tone crisp.

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's good to break out of your routine," Harry looked at her panini and tea. "You always get the same thing."

Hermione popped her mouth open, her cheeks red. "I have plenty of things to worry about! Being exciting in my food choices is hardly a high priority in my life."

Harry held his hands up, in self-defense. "I'm just saying, get a tart or go wild and try cola."

Hermione's parents screamed behind her eyes, about sugar and sweets and all manner of terrible things. She wasn't so predictable. She had Thai last week, and she'd gone to a bar in her pajamas.

"Or don't," Harry said, his voice softer now. "Do whatever makes you happy."

"I do."

"Good," Harry smiled, his eyes gentle. "I want to see you happy. Gin does, too."

Hermione looked down at her half-empty plate, and the tea she'd left to steep too long.

She'd rather like to be happy, too.

...

The files Penny had pawed through offered little in the way of information. That, combined with the Malfoy family's suffocating silence since the end of the war, gave her little in the way of answers either. Their whole family had been pardoned, as they'd argued they'd all been under the control of Imperius. And, with a sizeable donation to several affected groups, they managed to secure favor.

And then nothing.

And that was infuriating.

Hermione laid on the floor of her apartment, in the rug she'd thrifted from a nearby charity shop. Laying on the floor helped her to crack her back, and to give her a new perspective. She'd been reading old Daily Prophets for hours, and it was... Tedious. She'd arrived home two hours ago, though she'd spent her day immersed in them.

Because it annoyed her, this not-knowing.

Hermione sat up, her legs crossed and her attention fixed on her front door. Her apartment was small enough, with the lounge and kitchen as an attached entrance, with bedroom and bathroom separated next to one another. Her bay window with too many cushions looked uncomfortable, and her chest felt too heavy.

She was still dressed from her day at the Ministry, a long skirt that cinched at the waist and a blouse with no buttons or frills. She was utilitarian in most regards, as bits and pieces would catch on her bag or sleeves and the whole thing was exhausting to think about. She'd go to work in her pajamas if she could, but that would probably go down poorly...

Unless?

No.

She could go downstairs, to investigate the bar and locate key sources. Perhaps someone could tell her when Malfoy had purchased the bar, and how, and even provide a deed. What if he'd killed the kindly old man with a knitted sweater and wrinkles by his eyes?

(Stuart Niccals could be a Muggle he'd killed rather than a pseudonym.)

A knock at her front door sent a shock through her. She didn't get visitors unless Ginny or Harry came around. But neither had made themselves known and so she drew her wand. She had warded the house against those she didn't know, or those who she didn't trust. Neither flared to life, not even as they knocked a second time.

As she crept towards the door, her posture scrunched and turned catlike, defensive. Crookshanks remained unfazed, though he glared at the door.

And the Sneakascope remained still, glass and finely repaired.

"Hermione," another series of knocks. "Open up, please."

Hermione's jaw cracked open, anger and shock rooted deep in her stomach. She obliged, angrily, though she didn't open it wider than a crack.

"Hey," Ron was wet, from his hair to his clothes. She'd not even noticed that it was raining, though she mourned her laundry which she'd hung in the chicken wire frame where Crookshanks lounged. "Can I come in?"

"I don't know, can you?"

" _May_ I," Ron corrected, though he smirked through his annoyance.

"No."

The rain seemed to hit harder, and he remained at her door. He'd done this a few times since she'd left. It had been romantic at first, then annoying, and now it was just inconvenient. She had her laundry to fetch.

"Fine," she yanked the door open. "If only for you to Apparate home in private -- don't -- " she had begun to walk away, but he'd sloshed water straight onto her rug.

"Ah, it's fine, look," and he waved a hand, which dried the rug and himself.

"Or you could just not track water in, you know, that is an option," she hissed, in motion to fetch her washing. She slid open the balcony door, to collect the spread of underwear and t-shirts. She kept her homeware simple and light, no slogans, though her underwear had some silly prints. Christmas gifts, or emergency underwear, the like.

She'd been so busy with it she'd not noticed the arms snake around her waist.

"Come home," Ron said against her neck, and she remained stone-like.

Just like always.

"You made your point," he huffed, warm air around the shell of her ear. The thin scrape of stubble drew across her neck. "I'm sorry."

"For?" Hermione said, her tone stiff.

"Everything?" He planted a few kisses along her neck, and she shrugged them off. The wet slap of rain hit through the chicken wire, and she was tempted to lock him on the balcony. Instead, he ghosted her like so many things in her life. A series of hasty choices rationalized later. She wasn't a Ravenclaw, for all her brilliance. She was a Gryffindor, laden with pride and passion, and the urge to do right.

And finally, she'd done right by herself.

"We both agreed that we needed a break," Ron tipped his head, red hair splattered across his forehead. She wanted to reach out, to stroke it away, but the gesture would be empty. Something she felt she was meant to do, rather than what she wanted to do.

"A break," Hermione repeated, her tone painfully sweet. "Not a -- a chance to screw Lavender with no repercussions."

"You could've gone off with Krum or something, get it out of your system, then we could -- "

"No Ron," Hermione cut off, as she closed the gap between them with fire in her eyes. "I loved you, so much, and I didn't want anyone else. I -- I still don't, not really."

"So we just pretend it didn't happen," he said, as if it were that easy.

"I _loved_ you, Ron," she repeated with a heavier emphasis on her words. "You think I can just pretend you didn't immediately have Lavender in our place, and... I don't even want to talk about it, just go, please," she gritted her teeth, fierce and tight.

"She just needed a place to stay," he frowned. "Feels like you're just making excuses to be mad at me."

"Why are you here?" Hermione said, her voice empty.

"Malfoy owns this place, Ginny told me -- you really think I'm gonna let you live somewhere he can just pop into whenever he likes?"

"Let me?"

"Y'know what I meant -- "

" _Let_ me?" Hermione balled her hands by her sides, the brown of her eyes a brilliant shade against her red cheeks. "Get out! Out!"

"Why can't you just talk to me about stuff, instead of getting mad about every little thing?" He remained fixed in the center of her thrifted rug, the caramel contrasted with the purple of his work uniform. "I love you, Hermione, I wanted everything with you. I still do."

"Well, I don't," Hermione cut back, a crackle of electricity spread through her hair. "Go."

Ron tongued his lips apart, and the worst had yet to encompass her. Because he had a nasty habit of kissing her when they fought, as it'd worked when they first got together. She'd stupidly thought it was romantic, something you'd see in movies, where the girl just needed a tender touch and she'd melt. But Hermione didn't feel as if she'd melt, she felt like she might explode.

But it'd been so long since she'd had someone so close to her, and he felt so familiar.

She let him kiss her, which was much the same as kissing back, wasn't it?

(It wasn't.)

A sobering wave of anxiety washed over her as he lifted her, hands behind her thighs, the snake of his mouth along her throat. It stopped being a point of pity and had become a promise, one she wasn't willing to fulfill.

"You have to go," she said against his ear, much as he'd done to her on the balcony. He let her slide, too close to him, a familiar heat and hardness to his figure. But it didn't shock or entice her, or even cause much of anything. She felt so numb and distant like she was watching this happen to her, rather than being part of it.

And he kept her hands in his, to press kisses to her knuckles, and that distance persisted.

"Please go."

And he let her hands drop, defeated.

She walked him to the door, because somewhere in the kisses he'd worked her into the bedroom, and she refused, refused, re-fucking-fused to let them lapse. It wasn't what she wanted, not when all she wanted was her friend back. Not a half-there romance, which he'd only cared about once he'd lost her.

"Let me take you out to dinner, or something," Ron said, as he pecked her cheek.

"No." She rubbed her cheek, her gaze slanted at the skirting board. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Think about it," he smiled, half-there, as he opened the front door. There was an approved Apparation spot a block away, and she needed him out. But he'd stopped in the doorway and she wanted to scream or to shove him the rest of the way. But as she pushed closer, she saw the glint in the moonlight.

"Bad time?" Malfoy asked, a bottle of wine and a card in either hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The petty "I don't know, can you?" is an intentional callback, just making that clear -- Draco said it to Hermione to be A Dick, and Hermione is still salty about it. :)


	4. happy hobbies.

Hermione fought the instinct to shove Ron outside and slam the door, if only because it'd mean leaving the pair alone.

Which, given their tense eye contact, she suspected would end in a murder. She wasn't sure whom she was rooting for if that were the case, which was such a thorough shock to her system that she jumped. Visibly, enough to catch Malfoy's attention. Ron was too busy, as he postured in front of Hermione like a human shield.

"Ah, what are you doing here?" Hermione said, her tone indifferent.

"These are for you," he said, his gaze fixed to her around Ron's shoulder. His lack of acknowledgement towards Ron was somehow worse than outright cruelty, as he offered the wine and card forward.

"You didn't have to -- "

"It's not from me," he tipped his head. A smirk unfolded in the shadows, which made her skin crawl. He offered the bottle towards her.

She wanted to throw the bottle into the dim courtyard, draped in vines and latticed wood.

"Yeah, well, thanks," Ron snatched them from Draco, who seemed unperturbed. "We'll be sure to enjoy this -- off you go."

She readied herself for a verbal spar between Ron and Draco, but instead she watched as Draco jogged down the stairs and back into the bar.

Into _his_ bar.

Ron teared into the card, though his expression relaxed in seconds.

"May I have that," Hermione asked, though there was no room for a 'no'. He handed across the card but not the wine, his eyes narrowed at the bar below.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Thank you for helping me get out of the Nott family home. I am enjoying my work at Florence and Blotts. I asked them what is good to give as a thank you gift, and have saved for several weeks. I hope you enjoy this wine._

_You are very nice. I have learned how to read and write, as I always wanted to. I am having a very happy time. Please come and visit so I can show you which books I think you would like._

_Best regards,_   
_Armadillo (or Dilly as I was called before)_

Hermione couldn't stop herself from crying, an ugly, loud noise which made her throat clench and her eyes bulge.

"Jesus, 'Mione," Ron scoffed.

Hermione snatched at the wine, but Ron held it further away.

"Give it," Hermione flicked her fingers at her palm, the letter clutched to her chest.

"It could be poisoned," he sneered. "What if Malfoy's trying to off you or something? He's done it before."

"Oh, can you please just give it to me," Hermione pushed into him, to grab the bottle. It was too wet for her to get purchase with her fingers, though it was also too wet for him to keep it close.

She watched it bounce down a few steps before it shattered. The bright green glass glinted in the low light and rain, while the red of the wine sprawled like ink. Thick rivets of red bled into the pavement, though the courtyard was angled for drainage. She watched the wine vanish in seconds, though the glass remained like a corpse.

"Oh well," he snorted. "Not like you drink anyway, right?"

Her door slammed behind her as she stormed inside her apartment. She paced back and forth, desperate to walk off the anger that bubbled beneath her skin. No, she didn't drink, but the gesture was kind. Armadillo had picked the wine special for her, and she could have given it as a gift to her parents, or to someone, and it was the thought that counted.

No apology, nothing, just a _'too bad, so sad'_ \-- the nerve!

He knocked once, twice, and then it was silent except for her persistent pace around her thrifted carpet. The rain outside worsened, as if it could sense her mood. She pretended like when she was a little girl, that she had any control of the weather. She pictured Ron struck by lightning, his face soot-covered and his hair on end. She pictured his robes blowing about in the wind as he begged for forgiveness, her aloft like a spirit of the storm and -- 

And it sounded far more impressive than her snotty sobs into her Gryffindor throw blanket.

Because she was a witch, to be sure, but that was all.

...

_**Friday, 19th November, 2004.** _

The good part of Hermione's job was how routine it was. And while Harry's words, about how she needed to try new things, haunted her... She rather enjoyed things being the same. It allowed her better focus for new tasks and challenges, and it allowed her to improve upon processes. To repeat a task was to perfect a task, so long as you were mindful in how you actioned it.

Work smart, not hard, all that self-help stuff.

(She's had a binge period of self-help books after her first week of single life, as she'd wanted to get a fresh start on life. She figured out the patterns of the books, how they'd harp on the same points. She'd not bothered to read further into the genre.)

"Penny," Hermione cast a sidelong glance at her assistant, who had two parchments pinched between her lips and a quill behind her ear. "You don't have to stay back because I am."

"No, I know, it's..." Penny spat out the parchment as neat as she could, though it bore the cherry chapstick mark around the edge. She waved her hand to remove the stain, so that her cheeks were now red instead of her papers. "I want to be ready for Monday."

Ah yes, Monday.

As the year rushed to an end, the projects for next year were being assessed. This included Penny's updated license for land ownership, so that centaurs could legally own property while also matching their belief system. Wizards were very literal, in scripts and parchments. Centaurs leaned into the stars and ceremonies. She'd found a blend of the two, which she gushed about at any given opportunity.

She hadn't been here a year, and she'd already organized a project.

Hermione was proud, to say the least.

As her mentor, she had led her through the due processes, and how to compile a proposal. Hermione had her own focuses, too, which took up most of her time.

Her projects remained in the realm of House Elves, though she'd also lobbied for dragon ownership licenses under special consideration. People owned dragons all across Britain, regardless of how illegal it was. She figured it'd make more sense to allow people to own dragons, but have them provide proof of income, habitat, all that sort of stuff. It'd prevent petty criminal charges for confused witches or wizards who'd been tricked into buying an egg without the proper knowledge of what creature it was. Plenty of magical creature rescue groups were saddled with illegal dragons monthly, with no method of legalizing them --

In any case, it was small changes, but changes nonetheless.

"You'll do amazing," Hermione batted Penny's hand away from a book, her smile maternal.

"Right," Penny smiled, meek as she looked over her parchments. "But -- "

"But it's late," Hermione moved to collect her cloak from the rack, her gaze split between the door and Penny. "And the cleaners will be in soon."

"They can clean around me," Penny laughed.

Hermione beamed at the girl, who echoed her in many ways. "Or they'll take you into their ranks and I'll see you in the Atrium tomorrow, waxing the floors."

"Could be fun, riding one of the waxing brooms."

They walked in tandem to the elevator, their floor dead quiet. The sweeping marble floors in each hallway enhanced the empty feeling. Sound didn't settle in any corner, so instead their heels could be heard in reverb. They didn't chatter, either, which Hermione appreciated. Penny seemed content to relax in the silence, as much as she did. Hermione couldn't really work in perfect silence, not without the urge to hyperfocus beyond reason. Exams, for example, she'd focus down on the sound of someone's shoe scuffing or the scratch of quills.

Hermione's mind was always after an answer to questions she'd not even asked. A source of sound, or a smell, or something, she was keenly aware of everything. It was nice to be tired, for at least then she could relax as Penny did, by her side in the lightning-fast elevator.

The ding slapped her back into the present, and they walked to the Apparation points. An ornate sigil sat above each railed area. Each Ministry worker was assigned an arrival time and a sigil, to ensure that people weren't all cramming into the same spots all at once. And if people Apparated willy-nilly, there'd be no way to track them through the Ministry.

Hermione split off from Penny towards her sigil, the one that linked Whitehall to her apartment in Primrose Hill. Some days she got the train to work, for the sake of time outside, but tonight it was dark and late. It'd rained most of the week, and she didn't trust the evening to remain dry.

As she blinked out of existence and reemerged, she held her breath. There was no reason to, but it made her feel better.

Sometimes she felt like someone had grabbed her, but it was just...

Bad thoughts.

That's all.

She landed with a prickle to her skin, as the evening rain pelted down at her. She yanked her umbrella out of her beaded purse, at least glad that there was an anti-Muggle field around the Apparation points. It allowed her a few seconds to right herself before she strode out, as if she belonged there.

The bar wasn't far from the point, another thing to be thankful for. She ducked down the wide alleyway and crept through the back entrance. It was a Friday night, and there were plenty of Muggles soaked in beer and wine. They laughed and cheered and lived, and she wanted to be in her room.

As she walked in, a piece of paper caught her eye.

_Come downstairs when you get a chance, please. -- D.M._

Hermione frowned. She dropped her umbrella and stared at the note, unsure what to make of it. She could have ignored it, were it not for the word 'please' -- Draco Malfoy, and the word please?

Unfathomable. 

It was a Friday night, and the Muggles downstairs were laughing and cheering and living, and she wished she'd just stayed in her room.

But she didn't.

Instead, Hermione conceded, her brow set in an unfriendly line as she marched down the ironwork staircase up to her apartment. The music was artificial and vague, not live, so she was at least glad for that. She walked through the wide glass doors that had been propped open with sand bags, though one had burst and sprawled sand all over. The crunch of grains against a sticky floor made her stomach flip, though she pressed on. She at least knew where the bar was, and made a beeline for it.

Unlike last time, she didn't hang back. She elbowed her way to the front, her hair clipped back from her face with an enchanted comb that kept the bulk of it secured. No Muggle clip had ever stood a chance against her hair, and so she loved the clip dearly. Even as it strained her temples and her smile, as she looked to the bartender.

"What?"

Hermione frowned. "Your manager?"

"Oh," he waved a hand at the stage, where Malfoy was leaned against a speaker. He was on the floor while some girl with long blonde hair stood above him, a guitar against her hip.

But he'd seen her before she'd seen him. Whether he'd been on the look out or it was coincidence, she wasn't sure. But she did see how he laughed and pointed to her, and the pretty blonde girl turned to look, too. He leaned up to kiss her, fast and light, before he headed towards her.

And she wished she'd stayed in her room.

"Thank you for coming," Malfoy said, a hand held wide. She didn't know if he expected her to shake it, or to hug him, and so she did neither. He let it fall, as did his smile.

"What are you playing at?"

He looked confused, though the icy realization hit him from the crown of his head down. His posture straightened and his chin lifted, a distance slapped between them as it always had been. His hair was longer than it had been at school, and not nearly as trimmed. It hung like rough curtains, curled and messy. But she'd seen him at the Ministry, and he looked so much like he had at school, black suit, black robes.

Now, he had split knee jeans and a Muggle band t-shirt with a cigarette burn over the heart. Her eyes lingered on the burnt hole, until he crossed his arms.

"Playing at?" He tossed his head, which tossed his messy curls, and she wanted to toss him into a dumpster.

"Great, wasting my time," Hermione pivoted with a scoff, though she paused when he stepped after her. "What Malfoy?"

"Come with me," he waved a hand. "Please."

The word 'please' was worse in person, as it sounded like it was a shard of an ice berg snapped off in a change of weather. She obliged, if only out of morbid curiosity. He led her towards the bar, and then into the back. Her curiosity morphed into panic as they passed through the worn hawthorn door frame and past the steel racks of bottles and casks. Cleaning supplies were slapped around, alongside boxes of coasters and old mops. A dated microwave sat beside a plastic lawn chair, and she had to marvel at how incredibly mundane this place was.

"I received a shipment of wine," he began, his tone a drawl. "But I received one too many bottles, and we don't have space to store it."

Hermione frowned.

"Would you take it off my hands for me?"

Hermione looked at the bottle, which was identical to the bottle that had arrived last night. The one that had shattered and splayed across the courtyard in the pouring rain.

Malfoy shook the bottle at her, his brow arched.

"I don't need your pity."

Malfoy's lips turned into an uneven line, jagged from how his teeth bit into his lip. "Take the wine."

"I already have a bottle -- "

"Don't lie to me," Malfoy sneered, the bottle pressed squarely into her hand. He'd snatched her wrist and wedged the neck of it into her palm, determined eyes bore into cautious brown.

"I don't even really like wine."

"You should at least get to decide that for yourself," he let her wrist go when he was sure he had a grasp. "Rather than someone decide that for you."

"You're telling me to take it," Hermione shot back, the dusty, cramped work room so quiet. She hadn't realized how alone they were in here, not until he stood close to her. Somehow, it was worse, without his touch.

"There's a difference between providing an opportunity to try something, and smashing it in a courtyard out of spite."

"Uh, Niccals."

Malfoy strained his eyes, his head pivoted back so he could exhale at the ceiling. "What Adam?"

"Customer left their wallet here last night, s'in the safe."

"Sure," Malfoy dropped his gaze to Hermione, his head tipped. "Get it for them. My office, you know the code."

This so-called 'Adam' vanished, but Hermione was left with more questions than she could speak. "Why are you doing this?"

"Well, they forgot their wallet you see, so it's a good idea to lock it up -- "

"No," Hermione tapped her fingers against the glass. "Why're you running a bar in Muggle London? What are you trying to do here?"

"You answered your own question there."

"But _why?_ "

"Everyone needs a hobby."


	5. appropriate culture.

Hermione being seated with an ex-school peer wasn't strange. People often caught up with those they attended school with, as a means to reconnect or to simply reminisce. She was sure that people often got drinks and chatted and had a wonderful time.

Except Malfoy was more than a peer, and his presence was never wonderful. He'd been the other side of a cruel coin. While she never hated him, he'd never strove to endear himself either. They'd been at war, with his ideals directly opposed to her existence.

By his ideology, Hermione was a mistake.

And the decision to slink to a back booth with Draco was an even greater mistake.

The transition from the backroom to the booth had been accidental, as he'd walked her to the booth while she'd been busy glaring at him. At least she wasn't in a trenchcoat and pajamas this time, or blearily awake at one in the morning.

Instead they sat in amicable silence, her bottle of wine tucked into the crook of her arms. They sat face to face, which afforded her an excuse to examine him. She didn't make a habit of staring at him while at school, except across the Great Hall between meals or desks between classes.

And yet he looked... So strange.

So supremely _Muggle_.

It'd been six years since she'd seen him face to face. She might have seen him in passing in Diagon Alley, but any glint of blonde hair she saw sent her into a panic. It was easy to equate his appearance to darker times, and while she wasn't proud of her cowardice, she didn't owe him her time.

So she'd behind a book or into a store, whatever it took to avoid him.

And thus, she had no timeline for the way he'd morphed. Not for the crisp black lines now draped around his biceps and forearms, nor how he'd broadened to match his father. They weren't in the same social circles, and even if he'd gone to the Ministry, she doubted it'd involve the Mistreatment of Magical Creatures.

She traced the dark circles beneath his eyes, and the half-there sneer that had been his trademark. His loose blonde hair dropped across his brows, and the strangest part had yet to register.

That strange band shirt, the sort that Muggle boys wore on the train with their too-big headphones and their too-tight jeans.

Malfoy gestured loosely with his hand, and she needn't ask. A loose silence field had fizzled around them like ice under her tongue. She stuck her tongue out out of habit, her taste buds alight. She understood the necessity, but it still made her feel strange.

"You've been staring," he said, bored.

"I have a good reason to stare." She looked down at his hands which were interlaced in front of him.

"Oh?" He smiled, a little too proud.

Hermione's expression fell, disappointment heavy on her features.

"People change as they get older," he thumbed his lips, his smile vanished. "Not all of us are dedicated to replicating Madame Pince's wardrobe until we die."

"Have you always sung?" Hermione asked, unable to play cat and mouse. She had to know.

"Among other musical talents, yes. I had to learn."

"Because of your family?"

Malfoy's lips twitched, as he set his forearms on the edge of the table. She noticed the thick silver bands and the immense spread of ink across his arms.

"It's just strange to see you here of all places, around Muggles."

"What's wrong with Muggles?"

Hermione stared at him, her eyes dark. He had to be joking, hadn't he?

Malfoy tongued the inside of his cheek, though she saw the smile of triumph.

"Don't play dumb, please," Hermione shuffled, though she set the wine onto the table. She thumbed the paper label, her gaze unfocused. "You were insufferable to me in school because I was Muggleborn."

"That wasn't the reason," Malfoy hunched his shoulders, his hands clasped in front of him.

"What do you -- "

"Hermione," Malfoy cut in, to stop her indigence. "I've spent the past six years of my life undoing all the things my father set into motion."

"Why?"

Malfoy rolled his jaw on the spot, stuck between annoyed and amused.

"Furthermore, your solution to being a blood purist is to, what, appropriate Muggle music and dress..?"

Malfoy's face remained unchanged as he watched her, a distinct sense distance behind his eyes. He wasn't listening, or if he was, he didn't care.

"I just find it strange that a Pureblooded wizard would run off into the Muggle bar scene. It doesn't seem like the sort of place you'd go to."

"Have you noticed," he cut in again, to stop her tirade. "That you're the one making it about blood?"

Hermione faltered, her brows furrowed. "I'm just saying what you won't."

"No offense," he swirled his thumbs over one another, his brow arched. "But you don't know me well enough to speak for me."

"I spent six years as the subject of your prejudice."

"And I've spent six years undoing those attitudes," he smiled, all teeth. "You don't have to forgive me, or excuse me. I was a prick to you in school, sure, but it's been six years."

Hermione frowned, heavy lines across her brow. He'd have to apologize for her to forgive him, and neither seemed likely to happen.

"You haven't changed in that time?" His gaze rolled over her, from her eyes to her chest, though it lacked the lavacious edge she'd expect from such a comment. It was matter-of-fact, distant.

"Not as much as you, clearly."

"I just like garage bands. For someone so insufferably smart, why is that so difficult for to comprehend?"

Hermione rolled her eyes bodily, so much so that she let her head drop back. She waited a few seconds before she sprung to her feet. She had come here because of a note that he'd slipped beneath her door, and she hadn't any reason to stay. Not as the girl on the stage wailed and the bar began to fill with people off from work.

The ice barrier of silence broke as she stepped away, much like a spike of peppermint from too much tooth paste. She flicked her tongue as her nose wrinkled. She refused to sit here with Malfoy, as if they were friends or even acquaintances.

Malfoy stood, his arms crossed as he examined her. She didn't meet his eye, and instead reached back for her bottle of wine.

"I'm sorry," he said, with all the grace of a scolded child. 

"You're not," Hermione dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Thank you for the wine. Good night."

And she sped off.

She didn't wait for a good bye back, or even look at him. She was too annoyed, at how he acted so noble or hard-pressed, as if being a good person was such a burden.

Or how owning a dive bar in Muggle London equated to reparations for his war crimes.

A hobby, as he said.

...

No.

No, that doesn't make sense.

Hermione was on her back in her apartment, wine split open and her legs draped over her couch.

Malfoy, with a bar as a hobby, and a musical career for a laugh -- no. No. That was illogical. Stupid, actually, and very incorrect. She angled her head to better sip her wine, as she didn't drink according to Ron, and so she'd finish the bottle. She'd checked the seal and it'd been fine, and she'd run a few quick charms to test it.

It was still wine, of course, and so it didn't matter how pure and clean it was, it still tasted like death. The taste of it was foul and thick. Her teeth were pitched red by it, like a child with too much candy.

But it wasn't lethal, not in any immediate way.

Crookshanks had tried to indulge in her wine by sticking his whole face into her glass, but she'd tapped him away from it. He still hadn't forgiven her, as he glared at her from his cat tree. She hadn't even tapped him that hard, but he was a very sensitive boy with a bruised ego. She'd already apologized a dozen times.

"What sort of person has a bar as a hobby," she mumbled, her face red and her teeth even redder.

The floor thumped with the music from downstairs, but it wasn't as bad as it got on Saturdays. She could stand this level of noise, as it gave her busy mind something to latch to.

He'd said sorry, sort of. It wasn't specific, and he'd said it as she'd moved to leave.

It'd been years since they'd spoken in any meaningful way, and if he truly was sorry, he'd have to know her better. She refused to sink to the level of whispered apologies in a bar, late in the evening. Everything about the black walls and curtained rooms was counter to her.

Hermione wasn't a _bar_ person.

And she'd wager that Draco wasn't either.

So why did he have a bar?

_**Saturday, 20th November, 2004.** _

Hermione didn't want to be awake, or exist in any sense.

She hadn't finished the wine, thankfully, but she'd had more than a glass. She was a light-weight through and through, and she hated how sluggish she felt the morning after she drank. It weighed down her limbs and wobbled her stance, so much so that she curled into her Gryffindor throw blanket and watched a documentary on polar bears.

This was peak misery, she decided. She would never drink again, not even a little.

It was a miracle she had Pepper-Up Potion from when she'd gotten sick a few weeks ago. It was enough to soften her aches and to lift her congestion. She wasn't a drinker; Ron was right about that, she conceded.

By noon, she felt much more herself. Enough to be able to read, at least, as she pulled herself from the couch to her chicken-wire balcony to read her reports for Monday's budgetary meeting. She was anxious that she'd be turned away, as her plan involved a branch that didn't strictly exist within the Ministry.

It was a side project, and worse, it was separate to Magical creatures.

She exhaled a thin breath, her hands draped over her knees as she examined her numbers. A large portion of the Ministry's budget had been dedicated to Dark Arts prevention and protection; but six years of sustained focused and investment left the department bloated and over-funded.

Not to mention it was a method that focused on the symptoms, not the cause. 

She wanted to set up a correspondence where Muggleborn children who are identified for magical potential are buddied up with children from wizarding families. She thought it'd encourage understanding and to help them integrate. Further to that, she wanted to provide small scholarships for students who needed it, so that children didn't have to go through school with second-hand wands or supplies.

It was an ambitious goal, but it had a spider-effect throughout the community. Or so she hoped. It'd foster a sense of integration and help lessen the gap between Muggleborn students and those who had magical backgrounds.

Hermione watched as several men appeared from the alleyway that led to the Apparation point. They chatted in low, serious tones, though she had no hope of hearing what they had to say. They were street level and she was above, only able to catch the hint that they'd arrived from the Ministry.

The black suits were a staple of Ministry staff...

She frowned, her fingers rested against her chin. They vanished into the bar below, which furthered her suspicion. With a flick of her wrist she gathered her parchments up, messily and quick. Whatever was going on downstairs, she wanted no part of.

Her Sneakoscope began to hum, low and soft. The pitch built, louder and louder until it was deafening. She grit her teeth and watched as Crookshanks made a run for her, to wrap around her ankles.

She gathered him up into her arms, her face buried in his fur. Her wand was clasped in her tight fist, her throat tight and her shoulders tense.

And that's when there was a knock at her door. Her heartbeat thumped deeper in her chest, harder than before.

Her Sneakoscope stopped, silent and immobile on the shelf. Perhaps the visitors had heard it and decided to leave, afraid to be found out.

The shrill screams of it remained in her ears, the room so quiet she feared she might have gone deaf. Her breathing was all she had to latch to, until a muffled voice sounded from behind the door.

Silence.

All except for her breathing, shallow and soft.

Maybe they'd left, whoever they were. It could be officials out to check on her, or perhaps someone on behalf of Harry or Ron. It could be any number of innocuous things.

Instead, she watched as the door was blown off it's hinges. It slammed into the bookshelf opposite, which smashed what few decorations she'd purchased. A few candles, a glass bowl with potpourri and a glittering award from the Ministry for her service in the Battle of Hogwarts.

The men in suits pressed in, three of them, though their heights were comparable. They varied in the size of their nose or ears, but they looked much like any man from the Ministry. One was a little pinker, or one had more sandy-blonde hair, but -- she didn't _know_ them, she'd never seen them.

And by the looks on their faces, they'd not expected her either.


End file.
